


On Recounting the Sins that Brought Me (Back) to You

by poetsandzombies



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Flirting, M/M, The lost years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:22:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24544576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetsandzombies/pseuds/poetsandzombies
Summary: No,Eddie Kaspbrak was not a "writer." He didn't know the first thing about writing. He had only a cocktail mix of suppressed childhood trauma, semi-repressed attraction to men, and a pending divorce at the tender age of 25; the words had just spilled out of him like a last meal at the end of a bad night, and he'd had no choice but to write them down.Or, alternatively: It's the late nineties, the losers are in their mid-twenties and, having no recollection of their pasts, Eddie meets Richie at a party.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 16
Kudos: 195





	On Recounting the Sins that Brought Me (Back) to You

**Author's Note:**

> Imma keep it real with you chief, this one turned out a little bit strange, but I spent a long time writing it so it's going up anyway!

Eddie Kaspbrak stepped into the thrum of the weathered, name-forgotten manor with a nasty case of tunnel vision and anxiety high on the back of his neck. His Calvin Klein loafers shuffled through the semi-circled pairs of Italian Oxfords and kitten heels pointed in pompous fashion until they met the foot of the open bar. Eddie wasn’t much for hard liquor, but he also wasn’t much for parties—not the barbaric ragers of his early college years or more of the high-class trivia nights _this_ one seemed to be—so when he finally managed to catch the attention of the bartender, he pressed an elbow onto the smooth, mahogany table and, in a faux-casual tone, said "Gin? On the rocks, please."

The bartender was a tall and handsome man—the kind of handsome Eddie thought he'd get sick of looking at after a while—who smiled with a polished sort of charm and made conversation with Eddie as he reached for an empty glass and fixed his drink: _I don't think I've seen you around_ and _what brings you here?_ and, the kicker, _are you a writer?_

No, Eddie Kaspbrak was not a "writer." He didn't know the first thing _about_ writing. He had only a cocktail mix of suppressed childhood trauma, semi-repressed attraction to men, and a pending divorce at the tender age of 25; the words had just spilled out of him like the last meal at the end of a bad night, and he'd had no _choice_ but to write them down. It was a catharsis—a catharsis he hoped he'd never need again. 

One measly book of poetry didn't make a man a writer, even if it _did_ get him a nifty little spot on a small-time magazine’s recommendation list, a publicist that refused to quit on him, and regular invitations to fancy-schmancy parties in houses so large the host, so far as he’d heard, couldn't even be bothered to make an appearance. 

And _that_ long tangent, had it been said out loud, would have led Eddie to the bartender's _other_ question—what he was doing here. It had taken him a year to even glance in the direction of one of those invitations, let alone decide to accept one. And that was only thanks to his nosy-but-well-meaning publicist, because someone was looking for him. 

Eddie returned the smile, but that was all. He was already tired from the _children children well and able_ nursery rhymes that busied his head as he had gotten dressed that morning and spared the man his life story.

* * *

Though the drink in his hand eased some of the tension between his shoulder blades, Eddie still felt painfully visible standing in the spaces between the various gathered crowds. And so, not one to interject himself into strangers' political-adjacent think pieces, he set off in search of someplace to sit. Though the house was large enough to get lost in, it only took three awkwardly connected rooms and some polite elbowing before Eddie was able to find a couch sitting in a cozier, less crowded corner of the house. There was a man already occupying half the cushions, laying with his head back over an armrest and his knees drawn up so that his bare feet could tuck in between the first and second cushion, but by that point Eddie was too high strung to be bothered. 

"Mind if I—?" he asked, gesturing to the couch, drink wobbly in his hand. 

The man sat up with a leisurely stretch at the sound of Eddie's voice, and at this new angle, Eddie could better see the tacky pattern of his expensive sweater, his curls and the way they got caught in his oversized glasses, and the soft, pink flush over his young face. He looked like he'd either been smoking or fucking, but, so early in the evening, Eddie couldn't guess which.

He was that _other_ sort of handsome—the dangerous sort. He looked Eddie over with a curious smile, making Eddie feel suddenly overdressed in his slim-fit slacks and tie, and drew his knees up to his chest.

"I'd mind if you didn't," he said. 

"Thanks." Eddie sat closer to the edge of the last couch cushion, careful not to get too comfortable where he could already feel himself sinking into the lull of this man's gaze. _Jesus, who was he?_ This man who bared his feet and dozed on couches at cocktail parties?

As if to read Eddie's mind, the man stuck a hand out towards him and said: "Richie Tozier." 

Well. That was a troubling name. Maybe a little for the fact that he had such a troubling face, but more so because of the troubling places Eddie had heard it before; out of friends’ and coworkers’ mouths, Richie Tozier was a standup comedian, not known well enough to be on TV, but well enough around these parts that the free bits of his special he's been doing over the last week had packed out the pub on 49th street. 

Out of his publicist's mouth, however, Richie Tozier was the man who had, for some _godforsaken_ reason, been looking for Eddie.

"Oh," Eddie said, shaking the sudden connected dots from his head. He took Richie's offered hand. "Eddie Kaspbrak. I, uh. I think you might be looking for me." 

Richie's eyes lit up at the sound of his name and Eddie pocketed whatever previous hangups he'd had before about being known through this lens of low-stakes fame.

"I _was_. I read your book," Richie said, a little awed. He straightened up a bit, face brightening as he looked Eddie over again like he was just seeing him. "I just...I wondered what your mouth looked like when you said ' _if we don't run, our bodies fall back into the mold of our mother's love, where we'll waste away in the womb._ '"

Eddie ignored the subtle come on and scowled at the familiar line. "Did you just quote my own poetry to me?" 

If Richie was embarrassed about this, he had a good poker face. Eddie figured he probably _did_ have a good poker face, and so there really was no way to tell.

"Is that not what fans do?" Richie asked, grinning. "Do writers not eat that shit up?"

Rather than correct Richie's labeling of Eddie as a writer—out loud or not—Eddie instead basked in how strange it was to talk to a man with preconceived admiration for him, and stranger still, the inkling of excitement that made him feel. 

"I know you too, you know," Eddie said after an awkward pause. He took a sip of his drink and settled back a little into the couch. Richie was, amazingly, the entire reason he was pressured into coming here. And he had planned to leave after meeting him, but found he was no longer in such a hurry. He could stay. He could talk. 

Richie propped an elbow up on the couch and leaned in. "Oh yeah?" he said. "You come to my show?" 

Eddie looked down into his gin. "No," he mumbled into it, biting down on his lip. "I'm, um. Not one for comedy. I don't really...laugh much." 

In the dumbfounded silence that followed, he once again became aware of the people around them, speaking in soft tones and low chuckles. Richie's face paused around his soft, open-mouthed smile.

"You don't..." he echoed quietly, eyebrows pinched in confusion. "You realize how strange what you just said was?" 

Eddie did, now that he'd said it out loud, but it didn't make it any less true. These days, and for as long as he’d known, he’d been laughing the way you laughed at your coworkers’ jokes, the way you laughed at hallmark cards. But _laughter_...laughter he didn't have. It was something he knew from childhood, but he couldn't...he didn't _have_ it. 

"I do," he said. 

Richie hummed and leaned in closer. Eddie hadn't noticed before now how blue his eyes were, or how soft his lips. Richie tilted his head and for a moment looked as though he was going to challenge him, before breaking into a smile and asking about his book.

So they talked. They talked until Richie's voice got low and raspy, Eddie's drink was mostly water, and a fraction of the guests around them maneuvered naturally into bigger, more daunting rooms. They talked until Eddie's ribs hurt from the way he'd angled himself on the couch but didn't want to move and risk reminding Richie that they were still _talking_. 

Richie didn't seem interested in going anywhere, however, so Eddie let himself relax into the couch and asked what Richie was doing here, besides looking for Eddie. 

"I do a bit where I imitate snobby English majors," Richie said. 

Eddie bit down on his lip and grinned. "You do _not_." 

Richie moved over to the middle cushion, sitting back on his knees—what was it about him and sitting? "In 11th grade, I was put into some experimental, advanced literature course, I _don't_ know why. I mean, I was...a good reader. A _pretty_ good reader. Anyways, being in that class apparently gave everyone some kind of superiority complex." He held the end of an imaginary cigarette between his fingers and lowered his voice a pitch. "Chaucer? Why's that so familiar? Oh, that's right. I read his whole anthology.'" 

Eddie snorted. "While smoking in class?" he said. 

"Oh, you didn't go to public school?"

Eddie laughed, and that seemed to give Richie permission to laugh too. Together, their laughter filled the air between them, along with a dizzying scent of Deja Vu—all clouded by the heat and the noise and the strangers around them. It was gone before Eddie could grasp it. 

"So _not_ big on reading then,” he said when their laughter subsided.

Richie blinked at Eddie, almost tiredly. “Comics, mostly. Some Mary Shelley, actually.” 

The only thing Eddie could recall about Mary Shelley was how she’d allegedly lost her virginity on her mother’s grave, and he was quick wave that thought out of his mind and drain the remaining, watered-down gin from his glass. 

"But you read my shitty divorce poetry."

It wasn't a question. Richie pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and looked around the room with a peculiar expression, as though he was only just realizing where he was. 

"I saw your name in a bookshop window," he said softly, and his eyes wouldn't meet Eddie's. "I saw your name and for a moment, I thought I..." His mouth hung open wordlessly until eventually he just shrugged. "I'm sorry. I saw your name." 

But couldn't Eddie relate to that? Wasn't that why he was here? He didn't just up and go to some publishing party in some unfamiliar house full of unfamiliar people at the request his publicist. No, he'd heard a name.

He'd heard a name and ran.

"You could probably apologize to your publicist for me, I may have...Yeah, I hounded her a bit. The, uh, guy who threw this party—the host—what’s-his-name..."

"Will something," Eddie supplied, but Richie shook his head and no, it didn't sound right to him either. 

Richie reached behind the couch and grabbed the arm of the nearest person passing by—a neatly-postured man with curly hair and a worried frown that almost ruined his handsome face. He paused when Richie touched him.

"Hey, who's house is this?" 

The man looked between Richie and the hand on his arm, eyebrows drawn together, and for a moment fear took over his face, as though he couldn't remember his own name. Then, slow and unsure, he said: "Bill…Bill Denbrough's." 

" _That's_ right," Richie said, at the same time the name came flooding back to Eddie. "The horror novelist. He’s been throwing these absurd jigs for years, huh?"

"But I don’t know anyone who’s seen him at one," the man addd. "It’s like he's..." His shoulders slumped when he couldn’t find the right words. Richie thanked him, and the man gave him a nod before looking over at Eddie. Eddie met his eyes and was about to ask if they'd met before when Richie let go of him and he rushed out of the room. 

“Anyways,” Richie went on, as though something monumental did not just happen. “He came to one of my shows once, I think, and has been inviting me to these ever sense. I don’t blame the guy, really. I mean, humor-wise, those books are just barren. And _sad_.”

Eddie _mm_ ed, but didn’t really answer. He was wondering if he’d actually read any of Bill Denbrough’s books; he didn’t think he had.

"I'm not a poet, you know," he said after a moment. "Not a writer."

"No?" Richie asked curiously, and the smile returned to his face. "You don't seem like one."

"I think everyone has something they need to say out loud," Eddie said thoughtfully. "I wasn't expecting..." _I didn't think it would come out like this._ "I want to study medicine." 

Richie threw up his hands. "A doctor!" he exclaimed. "Well, that's just perfect. I actually have a mole right above my left nipple. It’s flat, but..." He started to pull his sweater over his head.

“Woah, woah, woah!” Eddie, quickly realizing Richie was exactly the kind of man who’d take his shirt off in a room full of strangers for a joke, fumbled to set his drink down before grabbing Richie’s hands and pulling them back down. “I haven't even applied to schools yet.” 

Richie just smiled, as he’d been smiling all night, and leaned into Eddie's space. "Hey," he said, hands still intertwined in Eddie's. "Do you maybe want to go upstairs?" 

The question, despite the half-subtle flirting—despite the looks—despite the irrefutable yearning he'd felt since he'd sat down on the couch, was unexpected for Eddie. He let go of Richie's hands and sat up.

"What?" 

Richie's smile became nervous. "You seem like good company." He reached out and brushed a loose strand of Eddie's hair back in place. "And I don't want to go home just yet...and I think you're pretty."

That last part came out a whisper, mixed with the gentle tingle of Richie's fingers across Eddie's cheek, and the once quiet stirrings of arousal in his gut were now a loud thundering in his chest.

Eddie had never been with another man before, and though he'd given it much thought, he hadn't pictured his first time being with a stranger. 

And the thing about _that_ was, Richie didn't feel so much like a stranger. And he felt a hell of a lot more than just "good company." 

Richie's lips were pillowy soft and pink from hours of talking, and when Eddie held his cheeks in his hands and kissed him, he didn't taste like booze or weed or sex, as he'd previously suspected he might. Instead, he tasted like mint and something nostalgic. Eddie was a nostalgic man, and so he kissed him again before pulling away. 

Richie's gaze drifted beneath drooped eyelids to Eddie's mouth. "Woah," he whispered, dazed. "I hope that was a yes." 

Eddie nodded, and the next moments were a dizzying blur of Richie taking his hand, pulling him off the couch, and moving him through the crowds of people and out of the room. Eddie thought, after some hesitant wandering and wrong turns, that he could better lead them, but he liked the view of Richie's backside, the feeling of his hand tugging him along, and eventually their feet found the bottom of the staircase anyway. 

The house was, as Eddie’d been learning all night, large, much larger than the number of people who occupied it, but even though they were _practically_ alone by the time they'd walked the two flights of rug-treaded stairs and reached the third floor to the opening of a narrow hallway of closed off doors, a few others had apparently the same idea they did. Eddie felt unsteady with impatient need, but turned his head in time to see a redheaded woman pull a blushing man carrying her heels into one of the rooms, just as Richie tugged him through their own. 

Eddie closed the door behind them, but when he turned around to lock it, large hands found his waist and pressed him into the door. 

"Sorry," Richie mumbled, tracing his nose along the curve of Eddie's neck. "I still got your words in my head. I couldn't wait any longer." 

Eddie reached behind him to finally, _finally_ tangle his fingers through Richie's hair as Richie fingered the buckle of his belt, loosening and undoing it. "God, Richie," he whispered.

"Yeah," Richie said, without it meaning anything. He turned Eddie around in his arms, pressed him flush against his body, and slid a hand beneath his slacks to grab his ass in one swift, smooth move. 

Then he kissed him. And it wasn't the light, almost sweet kiss Eddie had given him downstairs—this was tantalizingly slow, and open, and hot. Eddie could hardly think through his lust-addled brain, not with Richie's hands in his pants, but somehow managed to kiss him back, and to kiss him with _meaning_. He brushed his tongue across his bottom lip before biting down on it tenderly, pulling a startled moan from Richie, who broke the kiss.

"Is there a—" he started, moving his open mouth down to Eddie's neck. "Please tell me there's a bed, I didn't see."

Eddie peeked over Richie's bent frame and nodded into his mess of curls. "Yeah," he said breathlessly. "Yeah, there is." 

And before he could say or do anything else, Richie was picking him up and carrying him over to the bed. He set him down on the edge of the mattress with care and straightened up.

"I need you take your clothes off," he said, undoing the buttons of his own khakis. "Because they look expensive and I don't want to ruin them. Eddie, I need you to..."

Eddie watched him shimmy out of his pants and got to work on his own, stunned at how fast this was all happening, and not at all discouraged. He felt remarkably safe here, laying on some stranger's bed, undressing in front of some man he did not know—could not seem to undress fast enough. And when he was done, sprawled out naked across the thin, quilted mattress for Richie to look him over with unrestrained hunger, he felt safe then, too.

“Shit,” Richie whispered, crawling across the bed and right over Eddie, and Eddie couldn’t help but notice he still had his sweater on. “I was hoping it was the loose tie driving me so crazy. I think it’s just you.”

Eddie poked his abdomen over his sweater lightly. “No fair,” he said.

“I’m shy,” Richie teased, but sat back on his legs and pulled the shirt over his head as Eddie watched, eyes wild.

The first thing he noticed, after the dark trail of hair that traveled down from his navel, and the way his hip bones jutted out at different angles, and all the other things that chipped away at his ever-deteriorating repression, was a mole above Richie’s left nipple. He sat up on an elbow and kissed it.

Richie fumbled forward, steadying himself against the bedpost. Eddie slid a hand up his chest and kissed him higher—kissed his jaw, kissed his mouth. His fingers found the easy grip of his hair again and he tugged the man down completely, arching his back up to press his body against his, spreading his legs to hug his waist and feel how hard he was against him. Richie moaned into his mouth and kissed him harder, rolling his hips rhythmlessly—almost involuntarily—sending an unexpected jolt of arousal through Eddie’s body as their cocks brushed together.

“Can I…” Richie pulled away to kiss at Eddie’s jaw. “I brought lube, can I…?”

“Y-yes,” Eddie said immediately, only partially sure what Richie was asking for, but entirely sure he would have said yes to anything. _Anything_.

Oh god, what was even happening? And how long had they been here? By the time Eddie had the clarity to find Richie’s mouth, Richie had a lubed finger pressing into him and he was gone all over again.

He knew that sex with men would be different, but this was _maddening_. This was familiar hands in unfamiliar places. This was an unknown thing calling back to him. This was nothing he could have prepared for.

“Eddie,” Richie said between kisses, panting hot breaths into his mouth. “Are you good? Is this okay?” 

Eddie blinked through his haze to see Richie looking down between them, eyebrows pinched in careful concentration as he worked Eddie open. He nodded back into the pillows, trying to catch his breath.

“It’s good,” he gasped. “God Richie, it’s so good.”

Richie looked up suddenly and smiled, pleased and surprised. “Yeah?”

Eddie nodded again, and Richie went back to kissing his neck, pressing another finder into him as he did. Eddie moaned loudly when he hit a particularly good spot inside him.

“Fuck, I want you so bad,” Richie whispered, and that was fairly evident, but then he said “I want you to remember this, want you to remember me. Remember me, Eddie…” with his fingers so far inside Eddie all he could do was see stars.

They didn’t sound much like one-night-stand words, not with Richie’s other hand curling around the small of Eddie’s back as he arched further off the mattress.

“Okay, okay, okay,” Eddie slurred, breathless and overwhelmed. He pushed Richie off him and sat up.

“Okay?” Richie asked, startled, letting himself be manhandled. Eddie pushed him back against the headboard and straddled his thighs. He knew he could let Richie lead, and the sex would be good. The sex would probably be _mind-blowing_.

But he wanted Richie to remember him too.

“Okay,” he repeated, reaching behind him and wrapping a hand around Richie’s erection. “I’m ready.”

And with that, he cupped Richie’s face in his hands and sank down, slotted their mouths together to muffle the garbled mixture of their moans, and, for the second time in his adult life, felt something he had the dire need to write poetry about.

And that’s what it was—chasing out the solipsism with the palm of his hand flat against the headboard and Richie’s on his back, rolling his hips and feeling, in this man’s arms, that he was not alone anymore. Richie held him tighter and bucked his hips up into him erratically, breaking their sloppy kisses to catch his breath.

It was the strange and silent remnants in the ricochet of their names, whispered in winded, aroused tones—the _I could pick your laughter out in a crowd_ and _you remind me of someone but I don’t know who_ and _where did you say you were from again?_ and _I see you in my future as part of my past_ and _this doesn’t bode well for us_ —

Eddie sped up his movements in a desperate attempt to quiet these thoughts, meeting Richie’s thrusts with equal enthusiasm as pleasure built low in his gut and Richie pressed bruising fingers into his back and shoulders.

“Eddie,” Richie moaned, holding him tighter. “Sh- _shit_ , you feel so good. You feel—”

“Y-you too,” Eddie stuttered, sliding his hand into Richie’s hair. “Richie—”

“Eddie—” Richie closed his eyes, head rolling back against the headboard. “Don’t stop, don’t—”

Somehow, through his blinding state of arousal, teetering on the edge of an orgasm, Eddie managed an amused huff. “Why on _Earth_ would I—ah—stop?”

Richie shook his head, wordless. Eddie gripped his hair and tugged it, meeting his eyes as their rhythm fell out of sync, frenzied and off-beat, realizing that he had no idea what he was doing skill-wise, but that it worked for them anyway.

“You’re unreal,” Richie muttered, eyes rolling out of focus. “God, who even are you? I’m—oh, I’m close, I’m close, I’m close, I’m—”

So Eddie ignored the growing ache in his muscles and ground himself back impossibly faster—impossibly harder—into the pain and pleasure of Richie’s lap, moving himself to better hit at the right angle again and again and _again_ —letting up only to succumb to the white hot pleasure that rendered him soft and immobile. He was on fire, he was on _fire_ , and it was okay, because Richie was coming too.

Afterwards, sweaty and exhausted and sore, Eddie pulled off of him and collapsed back into the mattress, rolling onto his side. Lingering pleasure gave way to a pleasant buzz over his skin while the night’s traces of enigmatic familiarity broke out into something more solidified—not a certainty of what it _was_ , but a certainty that it was _there_ , existing between both of them, and for now that was enough.

They stole a moment to themselves—still somehow strangers, after all—before Richie slumped down and joined Eddie, wrapping an arm around his waist and kissing his shoulder sweetly. Eddie grimaced at the feeling of come drying between them, but settled back into Richie’s arms.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Richie muttered, “but the 15-year-old in me that had to go to confessional every week is making a _very_ long list right now.

With the remaining ounce of energy he had left in him, Eddie laughed. He laughed until his ribcage hurt and there were tears in his eyes. He laughed himself to sleep.

* * *

It wasn’t until well into the next morning that Eddie woke up, a little groggy but otherwise well rested. In his newly refreshed state, he surveyed the layout of the bedroom—which now looked more like a hotel room—and groaned in relief when he caught sight of a bathroom. Richie was still passed out next to him, sprawled across the bed, and Eddie kissed the top of his head before slipping away to take a shower. The thought of having to put the same clothes back on after getting clean made him scowl, but it was better than nothing.

Richie was just waking up by the time he got out and toweled off. He yawned and stretched before reaching for his glasses and breaking into a smile when they cleared his view to Eddie.

“Shit, I was scared you were a dream,” he said, mouth slightly parted in awe.

Eddie snorted, but blushed. “Hardly.”

“You hungry?” Richie asked.

“I could eat.”

And so Eddie, trying not to kid himself, waited for Richie to clean himself up and get dressed too. Somehow, with his wrinkled clothes and bedhead, he looked better than he had last night, but Eddie kept that to himself.

“Good?” he asked, opening the door of the bedroom as Richie pulled his sweater back over his head.

“Just one more thing,” Richie said, following him out. He tugged Eddie back into the threshold of the doorway, leaned down and kissed him—slow and warm. Maybe like a first-date kiss, if Eddie had to guess what those were like. “Okay, I’m good.”

Eddie led them back down the three flights of stairs and through the rooms, the now-vacant nature of the building not deterring him from the way out. They’d just passed the room they had spent the previous evening in and were two rooms away from the front door when Richie put a hand on Eddie’s elbow as the same time Eddie heard voices in another room. They shared a curious glance and Eddie shrugged, already feeling nervous about crashing a stranger’s home—even if that stranger didn’t live there—and ready to pick up his pace, but Richie turned and started heading in the other direction.

Eddie stood frozen for a moment, unsure of himself or what to do, before sighing and following Richie back through the house and around the corner into a kitchen he would not have guessed was there.

By the stove stood a man in a loose button down and boxer briefs, smiling and laughing over a pan full of eggs as another man, tall and bare chested, sat at the table, talking to him. He paused when he caught sight of Richie and frowned.

“Bill,” he said. “Did you know there were other people in your house?”

“Hm?” The man at the stove turned to the man at the table, then followed his gaze to where Richie and Eddie were standing. “No, I’m sorry, I…don’t normally stay here. I didn’t think to check the rooms.”

“ _You’re_ Bill Denbrough?” Eddie blurted, unable to help himself. “The writer?” He felt his face heat in embarrassment, though the man didn’t look angry or…even all that surprised. The murky haze of déjà vu washed over him again.

“Guilty,” Bill shrugged. “Who…?”

But he trailed off, and for a moment Eddie couldn’t understand why, until he noticed that Bill was no longer looking at Richie or Eddie, but looking past them. He turned around and saw a man standing behind them.

It was the same man Richie’d spoken to last night, looking no less neat than he had the night before, save for the watch he was currently adjusting on his wrist.

“Sorry, I was looking for the way out,” he said.

Eddie felt dizzy. He turned to look back at Bill, but was caught off guard at the sight of a _couple_ standing in the other entranceway—the red-headed woman and blushing man who’d taken the room a few doors down from he and Richie. They all held the same quietly perplexed expressions on their faces, like none of them knew what the others were doing here, or they themselves.

Eddie took a step forward, alarmed and ready to apologize, but somewhere in that step, in that _half-a-foot_ step, Bill Denbrough _the writer_ became _Big Bill_ , a boy from Eddie’s childhood some 15 years ago.

And that’s how all the memories came back. Suddenly he remembered the synagogue on the outskirts of the town he grew up in and the birds that would fly over his house in the mornings on his way to school, and he remembered Stanley Uris. He remembered the t-shirt he’d bloodied in the summer after fifth grade, and the half a carton of chocolate milk he’d spilled over it to cover it up, and he remembered Ben Hanscom. He remembered the barrens and the rock fight, and he remembered Mike Hanlon and Beverly marsh. He could…he could tell that Richie remembered him at the same time he remembered Richie because they reached for each other at the same time, Eddie’s hand flying back and grasping his desperately—apologetically.

They were all here—these people from the only time in his life that he did not know loneliness, and he had forgotten them. And by the look on everyone else’s face, they had forgotten him, too.

And then _more_ memories resurfaced, faster than Eddie could place them; a rickety old house, lopsided and looming on Neibolt street. A yellowed, diseased man under the porch. A broken arm. A red balloon, a paper boat, a boy—

And then came the fear.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh worm? You're still here? Th....thank you.


End file.
